Shorts: Neighborhood Spat

 Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 

The town name wasn't important, rarely was when things hit this close to home. What mattered was the neighborhood, the block, and the two people this story is about. They were two storms, once formed, that never passed peacefully. CelticFire and Diego had lived on the same block their whole lives, but there wasn’t a single memory between them that didn’t end with fists clenched or words sharp enough to cut. It was like they were born to hate each other, and they followed their Karma to the letter. CelticFire was the older of the two, a retired boxer with heavy Irish roots (and he would tell anyone who would listen) and the kind of hands that still twitched whenever he smelled leather and liniment. Old habits die hard, and some never do. His backyard smelled like smoke and meat more often than not, barbecue was his religion now, and neighbors swore he could grill a steak so good it could end wars. Just not the one with Diego, go figure. He carried his pride like an old belt around his waist, faded but still shining when he let his temper loose. Shine might not be a strong enough word, more like... burn. Diego, on the other hand, was somewhat younger, very proud Mexican, and carried himself with a swagger that came from a lifetime in kitchens and a childhood of sparring in neighborhood gyms, and back ally, and street corners, and... well you get the idea. Cooking was his art, his release, and nothing made him prouder (or more filled with joy) than the sound of family and friends tearing into something he made. His food could seriously achieve world peace if given the chance. But under the apron? Under all that charm? There was a man who never let go of the way CelticFire had wronged him. The offense? He had no idea anymore, maybe there wasn't one, and never would be, but he still just didn't like the guy. They were both fire to flint, every single time. Sometimes it was a scuffed-up mailbox. Sometimes it was a trash can tipped over “by accident.” Sometimes it was just the way one of them looked at the other too long. Everyone on the block knew it was coming. The question wasn’t if they’d fight. It was when.

That answer would come late one Friday night.

 

 

The old community center, has been since the town was build in 1600 something or other. Over the years (decades, etc) it had become the heart of church gatherings, town news events, and as time passed, upgraded for block parties, birthdays, bingo nights and Gods knows what else. It had also aged into something else. Time did it's thing, be it biological or brick. The paint on the walls was nearly every shade of white, having been painted, painted over, and repainted more times then God spoke in the bible. The stage curtain sagged like a tired eyelid yet still somehow clinging to life. If you looked closely you may even spot a few burn marks from productions with way to much spunk. The wood floor carried grooves from decades of chairs scraping back during raffles and announcements. Meetings and school retreats. It was the heart of the area, a place of gathering that refused to break or bow to age. But tonight, it wasn’t about family gatherings or parish dinners. Nor was it about joining hands and being a community. No. Tonight, the now open space belonged to just two men. Two men and their need to settle things once and for all. Word had spread not by flyer or post but through murmured texts, through backdoor nods traded at bars, garages, and corner stores. No official invite, no open door, just those who knew, those who’d earned the right to see. They trickled in, quiet as shadows, lining the walls with folded arms and clenched jaws. They didn’t bring phones. They didn’t dare. This was private. This was personal. The overhead lights buzzed and flickered, casting a dull amber glow that made the cracked wooden floor look more like a battlefield than a ballroom. The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish, but beneath it was the sharper tang of sweat, anticipation, and something meaner. CelticFire and Diego stepped out onto the floor, facing one another like soldiers meeting on no man’s-land. There were no ropes to separate them, no referee to intervene, no bell to mark the start. Just the echo of their footsteps on wood, the low hum of a dozen breathless onlookers, and the unspoken truth that whatever happened here tonight would stay etched in the grain of that old floor.

There would be no ropes, no attempt at a ring, no ref, and definitely no rules or points. 

CelticFire rolled his shoulders, the sound of bone and sinew shifting loud enough for those nearest to hear. His broad chest rose and fell, already damp from the humid air that clung to the old hall like a wet blanket. Sweat gathered in the hair matting his chest and arms, sliding down over faded tattoos, ink that had blurred with time, fights, and hard living. His skin was rough, weathered from years of sun, fists, and never once caring about lotions or creams. He was the kind of man carved by grit, not polish, and the thick beard framing his jaw made his glare look even heavier, even older, like some relic of a fighter who refused to stay buried in history. He adjusted his stance, wide feet pressing into the cracked wood floor, and his size became impossible to ignore. Taller, broader, heavier, CelticFire looked like a man built to absorb punishment, to give it back twice over, a wall of flesh and bone that time hadn’t managed to knock down.

Across from him stood Diego, smaller in frame but not in presence. His body carried the lean sharpness of a man who had worked for everything he had, smooth skin stretched tight over wiry muscle, the kind earned both in the kitchens where he spent his days and in the neighborhood gyms where he had once been a boy with fast fists and faster dreams. His arms and shoulders flexed as he brought his gloves up, his body tight, coiled, like a spring loaded with bad intentions. There was no wasted mass on him, no softness. Just work-strong efficiency mixed with show-strong discipline. He looked like a fighter honed not by age, but by necessity. Diego’s dark eyes didn’t wander, didn’t blink. They locked onto CelticFire’s every move, calculating, daring, waiting. There was no beard to shadow his face, no body hair to obscure the hard lines of his muscles. Smooth, clean, and sharp, he was everything CelticFire wasn’t, but no less dangerous.

The room seemed to shrink with them in it, every inch of space pulled taut by the contrast. CelticFire, the storm-weathered brawler, bigger, rougher, scarred. Diego, the coiled spring, smaller but wound with a precision that promised speed and bite. Two men, two lives, staring down at one another with nothing between them but sweat, silence, and years of unfinished business.

No bell. No words. They just walked toward each other.

The first minute was posturing, but it was a dangerous kind of posturing, the type only fighters of their caliber could pull off. Jabs flicked out like probes, not lazy but purposeful, each one testing the air, the distance, the timing. The floorboards creaked under their circling steps, the echo of boots sliding and pivoting blending with the sharp slice of leather cutting through humid air. CelticFire moved first, big shoulders rolling as he snapped out a stiff jab, more a hammer than a feeler. Diego’s guard was already there, forearm raised, catching it clean with a smack of leather on leather. He answered in kind, sharp and fast, his own jab darting toward Celtic’s beard. The older man’s head slipped just to the side, letting the punch whisper past his cheek before he reset, eyes narrowing. They began to settle into rhythm. Celtic pressed forward, throwing a heavy left that Diego caught on his glove, redirecting it just enough to deflect the force. Diego countered instantly, right hand streaking toward Celtic’s ribs, but the bigger man’s elbow dropped, sealing the opening shut. The sound was sharp, punch meeting bone, not flesh. CelticFire tried to double up, left jab then right cross, the kind of combination that had put plenty of men on the canvas back in his prime. Diego slipped under both, weaving so close that Celtic could smell the faint spice of cologne still clinging to his skin. He came up with a hook aimed for the beard, but Celtic’s arm was there, shield up, the glove thudding off the rough wall of muscle and ink. Diego didn’t retreat. He pressed instead, peppering Celtic’s guard with rapid shots, trying to open a crack. The bigger man absorbed them all on forearms and gloves, the impact drumming like fists on a locked door. When Celtic swung back, wide and heavy, Diego’s footwork saved him, slipping, pivoting, spinning off to the side, making the older fighter chase. Back and forth they went, a chess match fought with fists. No wild swings, no wasted blows. Every punch was a question. Every block or dodge, an answer. The air between them grew hotter, heavier, charged by the precision of men who knew the cost of mistakes. And in that first stretch, no blood spilled, no damage landed, the crowd of quiet witnesses along the wall knew something rare was unfolding. Not a brawl. Not chaos. But mastery. Two storms circling, building, each waiting for the first crack in the other’s defense.

Then Diego stepped in.

Too fast. Too eager. To hungry to think.

And CelticFire was ready. 

  

A left hook whipped through the air and cracked against the side of Diego’s head. The sound was dull and heavy, like wood splitting under pressure. His body stuttered sideways, balance slipping, knees buckling for just a second too long. It wasn’t a knockout blow, but it was clean. Brutal. The kind of hit that makes your ears scream and your vision flash white. Diego’s jaw clenched, teeth rattling, and he staggered, blinking, trying to pull the world back into focus. But it was too late. CelticFire saw it,that flicker of pain, that tiny stutter in Diego’s stance. Worse, he saw the flash of fear in those dark eyes, and it lit something deep in the Irishman’s chest. His nostrils flared, his beard damp with sweat, and his gloves rose higher, heavier, like war hammers being drawn back for another strike. He pressed forward, not giving Diego an inch of air to recover. Another left hand came in, short and tight, crashing against the side of Diego’s temple. His head snapped sideways, spit flying, his shoulder dipping as he stumbled back another step. He caught himself on instinct alone, but his guard was ragged, his reflexes a half beat behind. CelticFire didn’t hesitate. He threw a jab straight down the middle, splitting Diego’s guard. The glove smashed into his nose with a wet smack, sharp and ugly. Diego’s head jolted back, eyes flashing wide as halos danced around the buzzing overhead lights. A hot trickle spilled down instantly, red streaming to his lips, metallic on his tongue. He blinked hard, tried to reset, but Celtic was already on him. A heavy right hand came whipping over the top, clubbing Diego’s skull and ringing it like a struck bell. His gloves came up just in time to block the follow up hook, but even the block rattled his brain, the force driving him two steps back, heels scraping the cracked floorboards. CelticFire stalked with the patience of a hunter, every step forward heavy, deliberate. He launched another hook at Diego’s head, this one wider, meaner, but Diego twisted, gloves catching it high. Even then, the impact sent shockwaves down his arms, his elbows nearly giving under the weight. The crowd of silent witnesses shifted, breath held. Diego was still on his feet, still fighting but the tide had turned. His nose was bleeding, his vision flashing, his skull pounding under the storm. 

CelticFire surged forward, eyes blazing beneath his thick brows, beard dripping sweat. He swung a right hand that caught Diego square on the cheekbone. The crack echoed through the hall, Diego’s head whipping to the side, spit and blood misting into the air. His knees wobbled, but he planted them hard, refusing to fold. He snapped back with a jab, quick and sharp, catching Celtic on the jaw. The big man’s head jerked, but it was like punching a slab of stone. CelticFire barely blinked, lips curling into something close to a grin. Another step forward, another hammer. A left cross slammed into Diego’s forehead, his skull bouncing backward like it had hit an invisible wall. His vision flared white, stars bursting in the corners, but his instincts screamed and his fist shot out again, this time a hook that caught Celtic on the temple. The impact landed, solid, but the bigger man just grunted, shoving through it, eyes locked like Diego’s resistance was fuel, not deterrent. CelticFire pressed harder, crowding Diego into less and less space. A right uppercut ripped between Diego’s gloves and snapped his head back violently, his mouthpiece rattling against his teeth. Diego reeled, but in that stumble he fired a desperate left hook, catching Celtic’s jaw clean. The sound was crisp, the kind of shot that would’ve staggered a lesser man. CelticFire’s beard jolted with the blow, but he only growled low, a sound more animal than human, and drove forward again.

The next punch came like a sledgehammer, Celtic’s glove crashing into Diego’s temple, spinning his body half-around. His legs stuttered, rubbery, but somehow he stayed upright, boots dragging on the wood. His guard sagged for half a second, and Celtic punished it immediately with a straight right down the pipe. Leather smashed into Diego’s face, his head snapping back violently, blood spraying from his nose in a fresh arc. Diego tried to clinch, tried to smother the bull, but CelticFire shoved him off like he weighed nothing. A left hook followed, exploding against Diego’s jaw, the sound sickeningly sharp. His knees buckled, balance threatening to vanish completely. He answered with a frantic jab, landing against Celtic’s cheek, but it was too little, too light. CelticFire was unrelenting now. Every strike was heavier than the last, every connection a drumbeat of punishment. Head, jaw, temple, Diego’s world was being battered apart shot by shot. 

CelticFire saw the daze in Diego’s eyes, saw the sag of his guard. But instead of chasing his chin again, the big Irishman dropped his sights lower. His fists sank toward Diego’s chest, smashing into the broad muscle that stretched his smooth torso. The first right hand landed flush against Diego’s left pec, a deep, meaty thud that echoed louder than a head shot. Diego grunted, his whole body jerking back as the muscle flattened under the blow. CelticFire’s lips pulled into a grim smile beneath his beard. He knew. He knew Diego prided that chest, carved lean and solid from years in the gym and in the kitchen’s heat. What man didn’t? It was armor and vanity both. And now CelticFire meant to ruin it. He hammered again, this time his left glove sinking into Diego’s right pec, the force digging into the muscle like a mallet against raw meat. Diego’s teeth clenched as the pain shot through his chest, breath forced from his lungs in ragged bursts. He tried to backpedal, gloves dropping low in defense, but Celtic stalked him step for step. Another shot, another, left, right, left again. Each punch burrowed into the smooth muscle, shaking Diego’s frame, tenderizing him piece by piece. The sound was sickening, dull smacks layered over Diego’s strangled gasps. The younger man tried to answer with a hook to Celtic’s ribs, and it landed, but the bull didn’t budge. Celtic barely flinched before driving a brutal straight into the center of Diego’s chest, snapping his back upright like he’d been hit with a battering ram.

Diego coughed, air rushing out of him, chest tightening under the assault. His pecs reddened instantly, swelling under the leather’s endless pounding. Every strike was deliberate, cruel. Celtic wasn’t just trying to win, he was dismantling pride, stripping muscle from glory to weakness, proving Diego’s chest was no shield at all.

“Not so pretty now, lad” 

CelticFire growled under his breath, beard flecked with sweat, eyes burning as his fists hammered home again. Left pec, right pec, the rhythm relentless. Diego’s gloves fluttered desperately, trying to shield himself, but every time one side was covered, Celtic tore into the other, patient in his brutality. The crowd against the wall shifted uncomfortably, some wincing, some watching with grim fascination. And watch more they would do... CelticFire drove in harder, smelling blood, not from Diego’s nose, but from his pride. His fists turned merciless, great powerful flesh forged machines of war, firing into Diego’s chest with a steady, bone deep rhythm. Each punch slammed into the broad slabs of his pecs, sending them bouncing, flattening, jerking under the leather. Another, then another. Then another thundering right buried into Diego’s left pec, sinking deep into the muscle. It rippled once, then sagged, trembling as Diego sucked in a strangled gasp. A left immediately followed, hammering into the opposite side, his right pec jolting outward from the blow before collapsing back limp and red. CelticFire watched the reaction with cold precision, the way the proud muscles twitched now, less firm, less solid with each hit. He began to dig deeper, targeting one side, then the other, as if he were chiseling down Diego’s chest until nothing remained. Maybe he was, maybe that was the idea all along. A left hook, a meaty sick thud. Right cross, sharp smack. Left again. Right again. Each strike bounced the muscle, tearing into its strength, until they weren’t the armored plates Diego carried so proudly but soft targets waiting to be abused. Diego groaned under the punishment, his gloves twitching at his sides, every attempt to defend beaten away by sheer force. He tried once to fire back, snapping a jab to Celtic’s beard, but the return was instant, a wrecking ball straight into the center of his chest, knocking the wind from him and buckling his knees. Now the pecs barely resisted. They shuddered, shook, rolled with the punishment, offering no shield. CelticFire pounded them like a butcher tenderizing meat, each blow louder than the last, sweat flying with every bounce of Diego’s body. The younger man’s breaths came short and ragged, chest muscles melting under the assault, no longer proud, no longer powerful, just slabs of useless flesh being beaten into submission.

CelticFire snarled, his eyes blazing. He drove a massive right into Diego’s sternum, folding him backward with a groan, then instantly hooked to the left pec again, snapping it side to side like a punching bag. Diego’s gloves pressed weakly at his chest, not blocking but holding himself together, his arms trembling from the strain of just staying upright. The hall fell silent but for the sound of Celtic’s fists hammering meat, over and over, relentless. Diego’s chest, once a symbol of his strength, his vanity, his pride, was now nothing more than a target. The muscles bounced, sagged, quivered, useless under the storm. His willpower followed the same path, each punch breaking down another piece of him until he wasn’t fighting anymore. He was just enduring. CelticFire’s voice rumbled low as he dug in another brutal straight, his glove sinking into Diego’s pec so deep it nearly disappeared in the muscle:

“Not so strong now, boy.”

CelticFire’s fists slowed just long enough for Diego to suck in a ragged breath, chest red and swollen, muscles bouncing uselessly with every twitch. Then the bigger man’s eyes dropped lower. Past the ruined pecs, to the tight, smooth ridges of Diego’s abs, abs he’d spent years sculpting, flexing, proud of in every mirror and every shirtless summer day. CelticFire’s lip curled under his beard. He went to work. The first shot was a straight right, buried square into the center of Diego’s stomach. The sound was ugly, a thick thud as leather met muscle and drove through it. Diego gagged, his mouth snapping open as air and spit rushed out. His body bent forward instinctively, but Celtic’s left glove was already there, slamming into his obliques and jerking him sideways. Diego tried to tense, to brace, but Celtic knew what he was doing. He dug in harder, smashing through Diego’s core until the younger man’s sculpted abs weren’t steel—they were clay. Each blow sank in deep, folding flesh inward, rolling the muscles beneath his skin like waves breaking against rocks. A left cross buried into his lower belly, and Diego’s knees buckled, his hands dropping to clutch his midsection. Celtic snarled, yanking his arms aside with a shove of his shoulder, and drove another shot into the exact same spot. This one went deeper, harder, Diego’s body jolting as though he’d been stabbed. He staggered back, eyes wide, breath tearing in short, panicked gasps. Celtic followed, relentless, hammering him with a savage hook into the side of his abs. The muscle rippled, bounced, and failed, his body folding around the fist. The crowd heard it, heard the wet, meaty smack of a proud core being broken down, punch after punch.

Diego tried to fire back, weak hooks to Celtic’s ribs, but they carried no weight, no danger. Celtic barely noticed them as he dug a brutal uppercut into Diego’s solar plexus, lifting him onto his toes with the force. Diego wheezed, eyes rolling back, mouthpiece nearly spilling free as his lungs locked up. Another right. Another left. Each punch found its mark, sinking in deeper, tearing through the wall of muscle until Diego’s abs weren’t protecting him anymore, they were just bouncing slabs, shuddering under the punishment. His belly folded under every strike, the leather glove vanishing deep into the muscle before snapping back out, leaving red welts and trembling flesh. The younger man sagged, arms hanging, his midsection a destroyed target CelticFire refused to stop drilling into. 

Every shot was a statement: your chest, your abs, your pride, I’ll break it all.

By now Diego’s once solid core was ruined, every ridge softened by pain, his abs no longer shields but sponges soaking up damage. Each new strike made his body buckle faster, his spirit dripping away with every blow.CelticFire’s voice rumbled low as he buried another fist into Diego’s stomach, lifting him with the force:

“Let’s see what those pretty abs are worth now.”

 

Diego’s legs buckled, his body swaying like a man already halfway gone. Gone, is what Diego would have rather be right now. His arms sagged useless at his sides, breaths tearing from his chest in ragged, desperate bursts. His abs, once hard and proud, were nothing but quivering, red welts trembling under every breath. He was finished. He was ready to drop. But CelticFire wouldn’t let him. No, this was years coming, and he wasn't done. The older fighter stepped in, one thick arm sliding behind Diego’s back like a vice, hooking him upright. His rough skin pressed against Diego’s sweat-slick body, holding him steady, denying him the fall his body begged for. With his other hand, Celtic drew back a fist and drove it deep into Diego’s stomach.

Thud.

Diego’s mouth flew open in a broken groan, spit and blood dribbling down his chin. His knees tried to give, but Celtic’s arm kept him locked in place. Another punch followed, sinking into the other side of his belly, twisting Diego’s torso around the blow like a ragdoll.

Thud. Thud.

Each shot dug deeper, the leather vanishing into ruined abs that could no longer resist, bouncing uselessly with every strike. CelticFire gritted his teeth, his beard brushing against Diego’s ear as he snarled low, almost intimate:

“Stand for me, boy. You don’t get to fall yet.”

The next punch, the next in the now countless serious of body blows, drove straight into Diego’s solar plexus, folding him violently forward. Diego's left his lungs, his eyes glassed over, he wanted to vomit and die, fall and be done with it. But the arm across his back, the damn arm, kept him from collapsing. From meeting a final end. More blows came, one after the other. Tenderizing muscle already long given up. He wheezed again, air whistling through his throat, his eyes watered from pain and shame, barely aware of where he was. His hands twitched weakly at Celtic’s sides, like they had a idea what to do, but could never do it. So they twitched, useless, couldn’t stop anything. Celtic fired again, fists pounding a rhythm into the softening wall of muscle, left, right, left, right side, each punch, each one sinking until Diego’s entire core was jelly under the assault. His abs didn’t tense anymore. They bounced, shuddered, rippling like broken armor, nothing left of the strength he once carried there. The crowd stood frozen, watching in silence as Celtic propped Diego up like a broken mannequin, forcing him to take punch after punch after punch. Every blow landed with sickening clarity, Diego groaning louder, his body jolting in Celtic’s grip, but he remained standing, not by his own will, but by the iron arm of the man dismantling him. By now Diego wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t even defending. He was just enduring, his abs turned useless, tenderized beyond recognition, his willpower shattered. Diego’s head sagged onto Celtic’s shoulder, his body jerking weakly with every thudding blow. 

 CelticFire kept Diego upright, his arm a steel beam across the younger man’s back. Diego’s head lolled forward, sweat and blood dripping off his chin, his breath nothing but shallow gasps. His stomach was already a ruin, red and quivering, but Celtic wasn’t finished. He drew back his fist and buried it deep into Diego’s midsection.

Thud.

Diego jolted, a strangled groan tearing from his throat, his body folding around the glove before being yanked upright again. Celtic grunted, reset his stance, and slammed another shot into the other side of his abs.

Thud.

The muscle rippled weakly, bouncing like useless flesh, no fight left in it. Diego’s lips moved, whispering nothing, his eyes rolling as his knees sagged again. Celtic held him steady and fired another, straight into the center line.

THUD.

The punch drove so deep Diego’s entire body snapped forward, air bursting from his lungs in a wet, choking cough. He tried to lift his arms, but they only fluttered, heavy as lead. His abs no longer resisted. They just absorbed, quivered, and gave way under every strike. Celtic’s chest heaved, his beard slick with sweat, his nostrils flaring like a bull closing in for the kill. He pulled Diego tight against the arm bracing him, lined up one last time, and unleashed a final cannon shot, not to the gut, but higher, crashing square into Diego’s chest. The blow detonated with a sickening smack, flattening his pec into his ribcage. Diego’s body convulsed violently, his eyes flaring wide, then instantly dimming. His legs gave out completely, arms limp, his weight sagging hard into Celtic’s grip. The big Irishman released him, and Diego collapsed to the cracked wooden floor in a heap, chest heaving, abs wrecked, chest caved from punishment.

The hall was silent for a breath, just the sound of Diego’s ragged wheeze filling the air. Then CelticFire threw his head back and roared, a guttural, primal cry of victory that shook the rafters. His fists clenched,  chest heaving, tattoos flexing as sweat dripped down his rough skin. When the roar died, he looked down at Diego sprawled before him. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t taunt. Without a word, without a second glance, CelticFire turned and walked toward the doors. The crowd parted for him like water, no one daring to speak.

It was settled.

Whatever burned between them, whatever feud had lived on that block their whole lives, tonight it ended here. Both men would honor it. Diego by enduring it. CelticFire by leaving it on that floor.

 

 

 

 

 

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